“No—but you will, won’t you?”
There was pathos in his voice, longing; she couldn’t resist him.
“Yes, but I must rest after the bath and dress lightly. The morning here is cold; at noon it gets very warm.”
He bent down and whispered, “Wear white like a bride.”
During the interval of waiting, Martin studied a map of the Canton, tracing lines from one Dorf to another, short walking tours through the woods; there were plenty of little inns where they could rest. He paced the terrace impatiently.
She came, all in white. A filmy scarf wound around her head, “à la turque,” accentuated the Oriental in her. She laughingly drew the long floating streamers across her face; her eyes shot fire through their soft transparency.
A little wagon drove up; the peasant boy cracked his whip and they started off. The road was smooth, sunlit. They stopped at the Springs, where Julie made him drink the unsavory water “to clear his complexion.” They were in high spirits, laughing at simple things, like two children. When they reached the chasm, the road became steep, narrow, with dark overhanging trees. Martin drew Julie close to him; a mysterious something hovered about them, intangible in its beauty, penetrating, wonderful.
The driveway ended there. The descent into the ravine must be finished on foot. The lad took a basket from the wagon and set it on the ground; then he cracked his whip and drove off.